


The Beauty Of A Long Day's Night

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Brotherly Love, Established Relationship, M/M, Moriarty is Dead, Mycroft Appreciation, No Eurus Holmes, No Mary Morstan, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sibling Incest, holmescest, no fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 16:30:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20361589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock visits his brother, his secret lover, after a long day. They have sex.





	The Beauty Of A Long Day's Night

**Author's Note:**

> I was aiming for a different tone here. I wanted them to be in canon as much as possible. It's basically all about the atmosphere.

It has been another challenging day for the man named Mycroft Holmes, about whom his younger brother once said he basically was the British Government.

Mycroft would have denied this of course; he is merely a civil servant, albeit one with a unique position. He spends his days with filtering out potential threats for the country. His brain is like a supreme computer; what he has once read, he never forgets. He is also a diplomat of the highest rank; whenever there are problems with ambassadors or ministers, it's his job to calm down, to negotiate, to pour oil on troubled waters. The public doesn’t know his name; his existence isn't quite a secret but he is being kept out of the news, of the gossip. That the press respects his wish to stay in the shadows, that internet providers delete any hint at his existence without any further encouragement speaks volumes of his importance.

He is a man that is feared by almost everybody who's ever met him. Even if he just has a polite conversation with someone who has caused trouble for the Royal Family or the elected government, if he briefly smiles and expresses understanding, people grasp that this is a façade, that he is, in fact, a very dangerous man. His codename is 'Antarctica' for a reason and once he has been told by someone he doesn’t like to be reminded of that an enemy is calling him 'The Iceman. He likes this image and he cultivates it as it serves the purpose.

Mycroft Holmes is an intimidating man, not only because of his shadowy position and the power that rises from it. He is a very tall man with long legs, dressed impeccably and fashionable. He always wears dark colours and he oozes the aura of a man of the 1950s but he doesn’t seem like a man out of time – it only stresses his cool uniqueness. He has very appealing blue eyes with long lashes, but they are cold as ice. His mouth is surprisingly sensuously shaped even though his lips are not exactly full. But it is usually expressing deep displeasure, and if he smiles, it looks rather disturbing as the smile never reaches his eyes when he is dealing with people who have upset more important people.

A man like this has enemies; it is inevitable. But he doesn’t have the usual weaknesses. He does like to have a drink after work, like he does now, sitting with crossed legs in his favourite armchair, a glass of the finest whiskey in his hand. He doesn’t get drunk though; he never has more than this one glass that he enjoys thoroughly, and maybe a glass of wine for dinner. Sometimes he smokes a single cigarette, and, in the right company, eve a cigar. He doesn’t gamble or sees prostitutes. One could think he almost lives like a monk and he is sure almost everybody does think that.

He does have one unique weakness though – his younger brother Sherlock. If someone really wanted to get him under their thumb, they would have to attack the reckless detective, who has indulged in drugs, who has a preference for danger. Sherlock would seem to be an easy target, which is wrong of course. He is smarter than any criminal in England, at least since one particular criminal has bitten the dust in a showdown with him. He has very loyal friends he can count on. The way to Mycroft might be Sherlock, but the way to Sherlock is blocked by everyone who cares about him.

And nobody cares more about him than Mycroft. And the feeling is mutual.

No one knows this of course. Even Sherlock's friends as well as their own family would have sworn they are at odds. They bicker and snarl at each other and probably even Sherlock's best friend thinks Sherlock would sacrifice his brother for the smallest benefit.

It's how it should appear, for more reasons than keeping evil people from taking advantage of their relation.

Mycroft has got a surveillance report for his brother just an hour ago. Sherlock has been very busy. His week has been full of chasing criminals, bringing exquisite jewels back to their owners, even finding a stolen race horse. His last case has been about finding a missing child. He has solved it flawlessly and the little boy was handed over to his grateful parents.

During all these adventures, he hasn't been alone. His friend and flatmate Doctor Watson has always been at his side, and Mycroft is grateful for it. The short ex-soldier is a challenge to be around for him but he admires his guts. John Watson is not to be messed with and he has taken a strong liking to his brother for whom he killed someone the day after they had met. So Mycroft knows his brother to be rather safe, no matter what he is up to. He might not like the doctor very much, but for this he is grateful.

After a long hot shower and a thorough shave, Mycroft has two sandwiches for dinner and a glass of red wine, only one. He listens to some classical music while he is eating, letting the worries of the day slowly leave his mind. He refrains from thinking about those that will be waiting for him on the next day.

Mycroft Holmes is a man who is quite at ease with himself and his life. There are days when he's exhausted when he finally comes home, sometimes in the middle of the night. He has a large responsibility on his shoulders but he is confident he can, well, shoulder it. He knows he is very smart, very eloquent and it's a good feeling to be feared and respected.

But it's an even better feeling to be loved.

*****

Sherlock blanks out John's chattering when they enter 221B. It's late and it's been a very long day, filled with challenging cases and dealing with people. Sherlock is not very good at dealing with people. He can charm them, manipulate them, even make them think he likes them – as long as they don't know him at all. Some people fall for it even though they deal with him quite often, Molly Hooper, for example. He uses her affection for him to get access to things he would usually not get easily, if at all, and the lab equipment of St. Bart's Hospital surpasses his own by far. He respects her for her knowledge and loyalty but he wonders if she seriously thinks he likes her. He doesn’t. It's the same with DI Lestrade. He's useful and decent but in opposite to his flatmate, he'll never go out for a beer with him. He doesn’t want to bond with _people_.

He mumbles an answer when John asks him something, chuckling. The doctor is a friend. The only one he's ever had. John, adventurous, adrenaline-addicted John with his brave posture and cold-bloodedness when it counts, but warmth when he can afford it, has become an integral part of his life. He knows he can rely on John unconditionally. The doctor has shot someone to save him right in the beginning, so Sherlock knows how loyal he is and how much he cares about him. It's a very new experience for Sherlock – someone taking to him so quickly and completely. Oh, John does try to change him in some ways; he expects Sherlock to be decent and caring, missing the point in this regard. Sherlock is not like other people. He is indeed a high-functioning sociopath; this is not an image. But he is a rare specimen of sociopath probably as he is able to care for certain other people, namely his brother, John, and, albeit in a more distant way, his parents. He avoids being around the elder Holmeses if he can as they are too annoying sometimes with their enthusiasm for things he can't see any sense in (like line-dancing or parties) but he has some sort of fondness for his ever-caring mother and his harmless, genuinely friendly father when he is forced to being around them.

“God, I'm glad I can finally stretch out my legs,” John groans after falling into his chair.

Sherlock nods but doesn’t follow his example. “I'll go have a shower,” he says and disappears.

Fifteen minutes later John has a beer next to him and is zapping through the television program.

“I'm going out,” Sherlock says, taking his coat.

“Wow, where?”

“Not your business, John.” Usually he doesn’t leave before John is asleep. But tonight he's too restless to wait until his flatmates has retreated for the night. And it's overdue.

John narrows his eyes. “You're not going to get high, are you?”

Sherlock sighs. “Do I look as if I had a danger night?” _You're right. I'm going to get high. Just not like you think._

“No. Not really. So…”

“Don't wait up. I have things to do.”

“I could come with you.”

_No, you really couldn't…_ “Stop nagging, John. I need some time for myself.”

“Oh, okay then. Just be safe, will you?”

He is rather appealing in his constant worry about him but also quite annoying. _'Sherlock, you have to eat.' 'Sherlock, you need to sleep more.'_ _'Sherlock, don't go into danger without me!'_ “I will. Stop sounding like my mother.”

“I've never met your parents,” John muses.

“No. Good night.” With this Sherlock leaves 221B Baker Street.

He does have things to do and not in a million years John would guess which ones and with whom.

*****

Mycroft is lying on his bed, the blanket wrapped tightly around him, and he's reading in a book about Queen Victoria. He had put on his pyjamas already when his phone signalised a text.

_Convenient? SH_

_Come. M_

It has been a more than a week since their last meeting. It usually happens twice a week but Sherlock was particularly busy the past days.

When he hears the key, he puts the book onto the nightstand but he doesn’t get up.

He went into the kitchen once more and made a sandwich for his brother, who still forgets to eat most of the times, despite John Watson's efforts.

When Sherlock enters the bedroom, he glances at the plate and smiles. “I'm not hungry, but thank you.”

“Eat, little brother. I can deduce you didn’t have anything since this morning.”

“Not true. John forced me to order some Chinese for lunch.”

_Nice try…_ “But you hardly ate any of it.”

“Touché.” Sherlock has left his coat downstairs and takes off his shoes now before grabbing the sandwich.

Mycroft is pleased when he eats it quickly. He has bought egg salad on his way home, Sherlock's favourite topping, as if he had known he would come over. He's rarely ever wrong when he assumes it will happen. He doesn’t question how he can know this as it is certainly not a deduction.

It's usually Sherlock who initiates a meeting but that's only due to his very irregular schedule. Not that Mycroft could drop his pen, so to speak, at five and then go home; often enough he has to stay in the office until late. But Sherlock's cases happen in the night more often than not, so he leaves it to him to find the time to head over to him. Very rarely Sherlock has to leave him sooner than expected due to a case. Mycroft never gives him a hard time if that happens. They both are who they are. And it would appear strange if Sherlock told Lestrade he doesn’t have time to come to a murder scene.

“Finished.” Sherlock puts the plate back onto the nightstand.

Mycroft smiles. “Good boy.”

That brings him a raised eyebrow. “Nobody likes condescending people.”

The older man mimics the action. “No? Not even you?”

There's a sparkle in his brother's eyes that he thinks nobody else ever gets to see. He hopes nobody does. There is something about Sherlock's eyes apart from their unusual enough colour, something one could theatrically describe as 'magic'. Mycroft has never seen anyone with similar eyes. “Perhaps I do,” Sherlock concedes and sits down on the bed, right next to him.

“Mm. Lucky me.” He knows he is. He knows everybody is fascinated by his brother. Most people don't like him because he is so unusual and frankly rude and cold but those who appreciate his uniqueness fall for him thoroughly. But here he is. With him.

“Yes. Definitely lucky you.” And then Sherlock bends down and kisses him.

*****

Their tongues move in a well-known, perfect rhythm; it's a dance, not a fight for domination. They are both alpha males without a doubt and perhaps this is one of many reasons that their unusual relationship works so well and has done so for now more than four years. They give and they take in equal measures. Sherlock might have the stronger preference for being on top of the two of them but he never complains when he sees this certain glimmer in his brother's eyes and knows Mycroft wants him to straddle him and take him inside to ride him in this sweet, strong pace that makes them both lose it very quickly.

Their bond is strong, and they are exclusive. There have been other men in Mycroft's life years before they got together, all of them nothing but fleeting figures that left no impression.

It started gradually; both of them becoming aware of the other one's interest at the same time. Sherlock had just become clean, or mostly clean, and Mycroft said, _'This is only going to work if there are no drugs, no indiscretion and no drama.' _Sherlock nodded his agreement, and they began exploring each other's bodies like Sherlock would have examined a particularly interesting experiment and Mycroft would have managed the evaluation of an exotic foreign country.

It was probing and cautious at first but soon they both decided that this was something that was working for them and worth indulging in.

Sherlock is well aware, and so is Mycroft he is sure, that their relationship is unique in every way. The obvious difference to other people's bonds is of course that they are brothers. They have a long history together, and it was never easy. But it also means they know each other very well. They can't hide anything from each other and they have long ceased to even try.

The fact that they have to be completely discreet about their incestuous and law-breaking relationship dictates certain conditions, and they have got even more important since Sherlock has moved in with John Watson. They can't meet very often to not raise suspicion. If they move in public together, they play the roles they have agreed on; roles that do root in their true personas, manners and past dealing with each other – Sherlock the annoyed younger sibling with the difficult past, tired of being reined in by his overprotective older brother, who on the other hand is always worried and thinks he knows how Sherlock has to lead his life, always willing to reprimand and demand Sherlock's cooperation. It is not a full ruse. It's what they really are but they are more than this.

Still Sherlock knows they would crash if they spent more time together. There have been short vacations that were enjoyable and went surprisingly smooth. But neither of them is the type for clinging to the other one, demanding permanent attention, even texting on a regular basis. It would drive them both insane and it would possibly threaten their relationship that is based on the knowledge that they are two very strong and independent individuals with their own lives and own preferences and interests.

There are days when Sherlock can't even imagine seeing his brother. There are days when he dies for being with him. It's the same for Mycroft he is sure even though they don't speak about it.

This is not simply a sexual arrangement of sorts by any means though. They are not particularly sexual men. Sherlock is sure if this development hadn't happened, he would have never bothered having sex at all, and Mycroft had forsaken every attempt at physical, let alone emotional closeness long ago.

But they both enjoy the sexual acts they are performing with each other, and there is emotion involved. Lots of it but unspoken most of the times. If people know each other as well as they do, having grown up together above all, they don't need to speak out the obvious.

They love each other. A love that's all encompassing as it includes the affection of siblings, engraved in their genes, as well as the romantic version and a deep understanding of the other one's uniqueness. It's not a love that results in overjoyed declarations or tremendous outbursts of jealousy. Mycroft is the more jealous one of the two, mostly because he knows the people Sherlock is surrounded by. It hasn't been easy for him to accept Sherlock moving in with another man, as straight as he may be, and he has always kept a suspicious eye on the unhappily married detective inspector Sherlock solves cases for. He has even felt threatened by a woman once even though Sherlock assured him he had not been driven by romantic motives when he made a huge mistake during the case that involved her. He has saved her life though during a time when his brother was still upset about him, probably in equal measures because of Sherlock's professional failure and because he must have felt betrayed by what he has misjudged as personal interest for someone else. He told Mycroft about Karachi a few days later and he knows his brother hates the fact that he went there to save Irene from being killed, no matter how little it meant to Sherlock. He merely paid his respect to someone who was almost his equal but lost her game due to her feelings for him. The Adler affair was the only occurrence that made things between them complicated for a while but they left this behind very quickly.

His brother never mentions either of these people in this way but Sherlock knows that he is still jealous just like he knows how Mycroft takes his coffee or how he speaks with his barber or his agents. Sherlock is a tad amused by it; he couldn’t have had any less interest in a romantic or sexual involvement with his flatmate or Lestrade, or anyone else for that matter, let alone Irene Adler. Whenever he senses such a sentiment, he makes sure his brother knows that he's the only one. Mostly he goes down on his knees then and expresses his worship in what he thinks is a very convincing way. Perhaps they should speak these things out but it's simply not done between them. The wordless reassurance must do.

They hardly talk when they only have a few hours together. Sherlock almost never stays over, not since he's started living in Baker Street. He stays for two or three hours and very rarely, if John is out of town, he spends a full weekend in Mycroft's house. Even then they are not talking a lot. They understand each other without a word, and sometimes they play a fun game of communicating via thoughts. During these long hours they spend together then they are also happy with doing stuff next to each other, stuff the other one might roll his eyes on – but doesn't seriously do it, naturally. They just sit side by side, the only noise their typing on their respective phones or laptops, and the occasional snort about the stupidity of the goldfish.

Now is not the time for talking either. They haven't seen each other for longer than Sherlock wanted to, and he's not in the mood for verbal conversation. Actions always speak louder than words.

*****

Mycroft embraces the light form of his brother, indulging in the sweet taste of his kissable lips. Egg salad, bread, tea, toothpaste, a faint hint of a cigarette, all mingling with Sherlock's very own flavour. They have kissed so often already and still it always feels new and astonishing.

Sherlock pulls back just to take off his shirt, and Mycroft watches him opening the buttons while he's taking care of his pyjama top. He stops there while Sherlock gets completely naked with quick, efficient movements and scrambles back onto the bed to lie next to him.

There is no question who will top tonight. Mycroft can see how wired up his brother still is, full of adrenaline and eager to power himself out. He has no objections.

Sherlock pushes the blanket the rest of the way down and frees Mycroft from his trousers and pants, tossing them aside.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at him as this appalling dealing with his expensive clothing and Sherlock grins and pushes him over so he gets to lie on his stomach. No extended foreplay today it seems. Well, the night is still young.

“That's your game?” Mycroft mumbles, a smile on his lips, and Sherlock chuckles.

“Problem?”

“Not one,” Mycroft assures him and lets his body and extremities get limp, fully relaxing into things to come. He shudders when Sherlock's large hands fall onto his cheeks.

“Lazy git.” Sherlock's hot breath is ghosting over his lower back.

“Be quiet and get to work.”

“Yes, sir.” And so Sherlock does.

*****

Sherlock loves kissing his brother, if on the mouth, his closed eyes, his nipples or his hole. After all these years, he's a very skilled arselicker. He always prepares his brother like this, enjoying the taste and the reactions his brother is giving due to his efforts.

Mycroft is never loud, very unsurprisingly. He never gets loud. When he's angry, he gets even quieter. When he's aroused, his breathing speeds up and his legs twitch but his moans are so quiet Sherlock wouldn’t hear them if they put on music during their encounters. Mycroft suggested this in the beginning, probably to take some of the awkwardness of the first time away, but Sherlock told him that there are times for music but there is no need for it during sex. It was his first time but he knew this already. He wants to hear every quiet groan, every utterance of arousal. He wants to hear Mycroft.

He grins when his brother curses after he has bitten into one silky cheek. “Anything the matter, brother?” he asks and lets his teeth scratch over the backside of the right thigh.

“I gave you a sandwich,” Mycroft mumbles into the pillow. “You don't need my flesh.”

Sherlock hasn’t planned to do this at this point but now he rolls Mycroft back onto his back and deftly swallows his almost fully hard cock with one smooth movement.

“Oh,” Mycroft breathes, his right arm on his forehead. “You can have this meat.”

Sherlock grins around his penis and starts sucking him, slowly, firmly and deeply. He loves to do this but he is a bit annoyed that he can't watch his brother's reactions without going cross-eyed. Mycroft is at his mercy now and Sherlock knows his brother enjoys it. He doesn’t plan to finish him off like this though so when Mycroft's hand falls onto his neck and his breathing speeds up heftily, Sherlock lets the wet, throbbing organ drop out of his mouth. It clashes against his brother's abdomen with a delightfully squishy sound.

Mycroft sighs and shakes Sherlock's ear. “Don't torture me.”

“But I like to do that so much.” Sherlock grins at Mycroft's playful scowl and reaches for the top drawer of the nightstand. “Stay like this,” he says and just puts a pillow under his brother's bottom to get easier access.

Mycroft bites his lip when Sherlock works a finger into him and Sherlock stills until his brother gives him an encouraging nod. He goes on preparing him and just two minutes later, he slowly sinks into him, his forearms resting next to Mycroft's chest, Mycroft's legs slung around his waist.

*****

It is always a strange feeling in the beginning, even after all those years. Mycroft's tight canal refuses to accept the thick intruder at first but eventually gives in at Sherlock's skilled strokes. It doesn't hurt, it's just not entirely pleasant. But Mycroft knows that will change very soon.

He has never seen himself as a man who would bottom. With his former 'partners', if one wanted to call them that, he wouldn't have dreamt of giving up control like this. He is aware that the concept of the dominant top and the submissive bottom is a wrong one but he wouldn't have allowed anyone else to take him like this.

He enjoys it with his brother though. Sherlock is the more physical active of the two of them; it has always been like this, and he knows Sherlock loves to ride himself and him into oblivion. He loves to set the pace and to deliver the pleasure, and even if Sherlock bottoms for him, he takes over control by riding him, and Mycroft loves to watch his expressions when he enjoys Mycroft's large penis invading him, claiming him, and Sherlock tends to be a loud, enthusiastic bottom.

Usually he fucks Mycroft though, mostly from behind, sometimes doggy style, and more seldom like this, missionary style. It's not the most comfortable position for either of them as Mycroft's cock is poking into Sherlock's stomach and gets bent in the process, but Mycroft loves to be able to see Sherlock's face, and inevitably in every encounter they enjoy like this, there comes a moment when Sherlock is close to climaxing and manages to rest his body on Mycroft's and kiss him frantically.

They are not there yet. Panting, the muscles in his chest, arms and abdomen working beautifully, Sherlock is thrusting into him. The pale light of the moon stresses his sharp cheekbones and the long black lashes, his lips look dark red, his eyes are dazed. His brother is always handsome but in this moment, his beauty is otherworldly and Mycroft stares at him in awe while arousal is flaming in his arse and his groin. The noises their coupling produces are as indecent as they are exciting.

His hands are on Sherlock's smooth hips; everything about him is so smooth. While Mycroft is a hirsute man, Sherlock is almost completely hairless apart from his pubic hairs and the light fur in the middle of his chest. The difference between them has always fascinated Mycroft, and he looks at his own heavily breathing, heavily hairy chest, contrasting Sherlock's sculpted, bare one.

Sherlock catches his look and winks before he changes the angle of penetration, his cock nudging against Mycroft's prostate with every stroke.

He can't suppress a louder moan now; he is very responsive to prostate stimulation and he knows he won't last much longer now.

And then Sherlock lowers himself on him, claiming his mouth in a deep, messy kiss. Mycroft grabs his face now, pushing his hips into Sherlock's deep, steady strokes, and then his brother moans into his mouth and Mycroft feels the eruptions of his brother's climax deep inside him.

Sherlock moves his face away from his one to nuzzle it against Mycroft's neck, his hot breath coming in fast hitches.

He only takes a moment to recover before he disentangles from him and turns around to grab Mycroft's throbbing cock. His lips engulf it again but this time he chases Mycroft's orgasm with strong sucking movements.

Mycroft closes his eyes and lets himself fall into the skill and sweetness of his brother's efforts. His mouth is hot and his lips are covering his teeth perfectly, his tongue is playing with Mycroft's frenulum in the way he loves it, and Mycroft loses it when Sherlock gently pulls at his ballsack.

He climaxes without so much as a sigh, his hand cramped into Sherlock's shoulder while he is emptying himself into his lover's still sucking mouth. After not having sex for more than a week, his climax is strong and powerful.

He can feel Sherlock's semen dribbling out of his arse and is relieved when Sherlock quickly leaves the bed and cleans him up. He will have to change the sheets of course but he can do that in the morning.

He's very tired now, exhausted in the best possible way. He has wished for another round but he feels he won't be able to pull it off again. Perhaps the past days have been harder than he has liked to admit.

His brother lies down next to him. Sometimes they go into the garden and smoke a cigarette after having sex, but Mycroft is content with just resting now, and Sherlock makes no move to get up again either.

*****

He longs for a cigarette. Sometimes they go into the dark garden and smoke, side by side. But Mycroft has collapsed onto the bed and Sherlock knows he wouldn’t want to go outside now. He will also be too tired for more enjoyment tonight. That's okay. Sherlock will come back very soon. He doesn’t want such long breaks between their meetings.

Not just because of the sex, which has been as spectacular as it always is.

Here, in his brother's bed, or in any way next to him, alone with him, he feels grounded. Quiet. Calm. Accepted. Happy.

He surprises himself with putting a hand on Mycroft's arm. His brother winces but his lips turn into a smirk.

And then his eyelids flutter and Sherlock can see him dozing off. His brother needs his rest now. Running the country behind closed doors has to be a hard job, and nobody else could do it.

Sherlock carefully gets up and gets his clothes. He will refresh himself in the downstairs bathroom, where he won't disturb Mycroft.

When he's finished and dressed, he comes up again. In the door, he watches his brother, who is sleeping calmly. He quietly walks over to the bed.

Mycroft looks so young and at ease now. Sherlock rarely sees him sleeping but he likes the view.

Without thinking he bends down and kisses his brother's forehead. When he pulls back, he sees Mycroft smiling, and it gives him a strangely warm feeling.

Words are pulled to his tongue from deep inside of him. He doesn’t speak them out. Mycroft won't hear them anyway. But he knows it, of course. And he returns the sentiment, without a doubt.

And who knows – perhaps one day Sherlock will tell him. Clearly, verbally tell him.

_I love you, Mycroft._


End file.
